


hang your last lariat in the hallway

by whimsicalimages



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Casual Sex, First Time, Friends With Benefits to Idiots to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sex I mean it, The Helmet Stays ON (Until It Doesn't), The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28328118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalimages/pseuds/whimsicalimages
Summary: The man turns to face him fully, then, helmet tilting. “You got a point, Fett?”He’s not usually so impatient, from what Boba’s seen, but he’s been coiled tight as a spring since Morak. It’ll mean trouble, if he gets impulsive on the mission. “No,” Boba says. “But I’ve got an offer.”(Or: 5 times Din didn’t show Boba his face + 1 time he did.)
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 55
Kudos: 916





	hang your last lariat in the hallway

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be smut and then it became smut-with-feelings and then the finale happened and now it’s really feelings-with-smut. Such is life, n’est-ce pas? 
> 
> Title is from [this poem,](https://lithub.com/if-i-should-come-upon-your-house-lonely-in-the-west-texas-desert/) with apologies to Natalie Diaz. Sincerest thanks to [J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumblingintowells) and [Adi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/book_people/pseuds/adiduck) for beta and yelling. Mando’a translations can be found in the end notes or in hovertext on desktop.

1

The first time is on the way to Morak, and it’s by accident. Mostly.

“This guy trustworthy?” Boba asks, plugging in coordinates.

The _verd_ shifts next to him. “No,” he says. “But he’s got information we don’t.”

Boba shrugs. “Good enough.”

“Yeah,” the _verd_ says, voice far away. He’s fiddling with a little metal ball, other hand drifting occasionally to one of the blasters at his side on instinct before he reins himself in and his fingers go back to tapping absently on his leg. Distracted. _Distracting_.

“If you’ve got extra energy, you should find a better way to spend it,” Boba tells him bluntly, after the fifth time this happens in less than a half-hour, breaking the silence.

The _verd_ doesn’t flinch, but he does go abruptly still, as if reminded that he isn’t alone. “I’m open to suggestions,” he says after a few long seconds, something strange in his tone.

Boba blinks. Is he really—it’s been a while, but Boba’s not opposed, and it’s definitely a better use of time than wallowing. The cockpit’s a little cramped, but there’s nothing wrong with quick and dirty sometimes, and they don’t have long enough left in hyperspace to make a real go of it.

He looks the _verd_ over, and finds himself warming to the idea. The man’s a skilled fighter, and it’ll do them both good to relieve some stress before they hit the base.

But he could be misreading. It doesn’t hurt to check.

“Two best ways I know are sparring and sex,” Boba says, and folds his hands behind his head in a way he knows makes his arms look bigger. He’s not as handsome as he used to be—sarlacc acid isn’t any man’s friend—but he’s still got his assets.

“I’m not sparring with you, you’d win in thirty seconds,” the _verd_ replies immediately, and then seems to register the rest, shoulders going stiff. “And we don’t have a lot of time, sex is—I’m not taking my armor off, so—”

“There’s plenty of ways you wouldn’t have to,” Boba says dryly. It wouldn’t be the first time Boba’s kept it on, even if it’s not his preference—or, apparently, this _verd_ ’s, despite his creed. Maybe he’d had something serious, needed that connection. “But it was just an offer. Take it or leave it.”

The other man is silent for so long that Boba thinks he’s taken the out, so he shrugs it off, goes back to the holobook he’d been skimming.

Finally, the _verd_ speaks. “Ways like what?”

Just like that, Boba’s hyperaware of the space between them again. He sets his datapad aside and turns. “I could give a practical demonstration,” he says. “If you want.”

The _verd_ ’s fingers ball into fists, then relax. “Yeah,” he says.

Boba eyes him. “You sure?”

“Yes,” he says, voice clearer.

Boba doublechecks the autopilot and engages the hatch-lock, before he considers their seats. The copilot’s seat is both slightly larger and less worn than his own, so Boba shifts to straddle the other man’s lap in one motion, one hand going to his shoulder for balance and the other to his chest, trailing downwards.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” Boba says, before he gets further down than the chestpiece. He’s hard already, but he’s always felt there’s not much point if it’s not mutual.

“Keep going,” the _verd_ says.

Boba quirks a smile. “All right,” he says, and drags a hand over the front of the man’s pants, testing, before pressing their hips together and rocking down.

“Oh,” the _verd_ says, hips canting upwards, and then again. His hands go to Boba’s sides, steady and balancing.

“Yeah?” Boba asks, leaning his forehead against the cool beskar of the _buy’ce_ and sneaking a hand between them again.

“Yes.”

Boba fumbles at his own pants and draws his cock out, before he finds the _verd_ ’s zip and takes him out, too. The _verd_ gets with the program fast, one arm going to brace Boba’s back.

Boba licks a stripe up his own hand before using it to align them right, thrusting against the other man and pushing them both up into his grip once, and then again.

Then fingers land lightly over his own before venturing down to cup Boba’s balls, a thumb tracing the base of his cock. The _verd_ must have taken his gloves off, at some point, but Boba hadn’t noticed. Now it’s all he can feel. Blaster-callused, like his own. Enough use leaves a mark even with gloves.

“I’m getting close, are you— _me’vaar ti gar_?” Boba asks, when both of them are breathing hard. He can feel sweat across his shoulder blades, which is going to be uncomfortable drying, but that’s what he gets for starting this here.

The _verd_ ’s hand tightens on his own. “You speak Mando’a?”

Boba grins. Lots of people can read it—not everyone can speak it, and he knows his accent is clear Concord Dawn.

“ _Elek_ ,” he says, and has to suck in a breath when the _verd_ comes then, spilling most of it into his hand. He only hesitates a moment before nudging Boba’s fingers aside and using his spend to strip Boba’s cock with more ruthless focus than someone who just came should be able to muster, in Boba’s opinion, and Boba bites in a gasp.

“Good?” the _verd_ asks.

Boba manages a nod, hand tensing where it’s landed on the other man’s thigh. “I’m there,” he says tightly, a second before he comes, too, and lets his head fall against the _verd_ ’s pauldron with a soft thump. “I’ll get something to clean off in—a minute. Always forget how much of a hassle this is when you’re not in a real bed.”

“Not in a hurry,” the other man says, sounding a little dazed.

Boba catches his breath for a few long moments, the whir of the ship’s engine around them bringing him back to himself, before he pushes off to standing and stretches up to fish his first aid kit out of an overhead storage unit. He pulls out one of the clean disinfectant cloths and offers it to the other man, who takes it, so Boba takes another and wipes down, before rearranging himself in his pants and letting himself fall back into the pilot’s seat, feeling content. Not the best he’s ever had, but they did all right for the circumstances, and he’s rarely one to complain about a perfectly decent orgasm.

“Thanks,” the _verd_ says, after a few minutes. “You were right.”

“I know,” Boba says automatically, before his thoughts catch up with him. “About what?”

The other man huffs, but his shoulders are relaxed and his breathing steady. “It was a good use of extra energy,” he says.

Boba laughs long and hard at this. “I’m glad you agree,” he says.

-

2

The second time, they’re due to catch up with Gideon’s destroyer in three hours, but the whole cabin has been tense for the last day with stress, since they’d finalized the plan with Kryze and she’d gone to catch some rest in the shuttle and taken her second with her.

Since before that, really. Something had happened with the Imps on that karking base, but the _verd_ isn’t telling and Boba’s not one to pry at a wound without reason.

“You ready for this?” Boba asks finally, after having ignored the _verd_ practically vibrating in the copilot’s chair for a good long while.

“Yes,” he says, voice tight.

“You’re tense as a tripwire,” Boba says quietly. Honestly. He’d try and come up with something encouraging about getting the man’s child back, but there’s nothing he could say that would actually be a comfort.

“I’m about to go kill a man and probably bring an entire destroyer’s worth of stormtroopers down on the kid’s head. And mine. And yours.”

“Yeah,” Boba agrees. “I didn’t say you had no reason.”

The man turns to face him fully, then, helmet tilting. “You got a point, Fett?”

He’s not usually so impatient, from what Boba’s seen, but he’s been coiled tight as a spring since Morak. It’ll mean trouble, if he gets impulsive on the mission. Boba knows better than a lot of people that letting your anger get the better of you only gets you dead. They’ll all need to keep their heads on right. “No,” Boba says. “But I’ve got an offer.”

That _buy’ce_ is still facing him, unmoving. Boba suspects he’s being stared at. “Again?” the _verd_ asks.

“Again,” Boba confirms.

“Why,” the _verd_ says, flat.

“I think it’ll help you,” Boba says. And possibly all of us, he doesn’t add.

“I’ll be fine on the mission.”

Boba shrugs. “Okay, then,” he says. “Thought I might as well put it on the table.”

A long pause. “What do you get out of it?”

Boba turns and stares, incredulous. “A good time?” he hazards. “Stress relief? Might’ve misread, but I thought we both enjoyed the last time.”

The _verd’s_ shoulders lose some of their tension. “I did.”

“So,” Boba says, and spreads his hands.

The _verd_ is still for a few seconds, and then his posture relaxes. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Boba’s mouth is dry, suddenly. It’d been a long time before the other day, and it’s not all out of his system yet, he rationalizes, and depresses the comm button. “Shand, you’ve got the controls,” he says.

“Copy,” Fennec’s voice filters through almost immediately. Boba doesn’t wait for her to come through the hatch, gets up and stretches and heads to his bunk, refusing to check if the _verd_ is following him. He will, or he won’t, but either way, Boba doesn’t have to be there now that he’s put Fennec at the front.

But he can hear footsteps after his own, and when he turns around, the _verd_ is closer than Boba thought he’d be. Boba takes it upon himself to pull him through the door, backstepping them into the room and bearing the _verd_ down onto his bunk. At least they’ve made it to a horizontal surface, although Boba’s got no illusions about getting the armor off, and in any case, they don’t have that kind of time. Best to be direct.

“What do you like, like this?” Boba murmurs, hands ghosting over the edges of the armorplates as he aligns their hips and rocks once, just to feel the pressure.

The _verd_ is breathing harshly under him, audible even with the _buy’ce_ , and doesn’t answer for long moments.

Boba pauses at the hesitation. “Is there anything you _don’t_ like?” he asks, and shifts up to mouth at a collarbone, bites down through the armorweave hard enough that the other man will feel it.

The _verd_ tilts his head up when Boba noses over the fabric at his neck, below the helmet. “I’ll let you know. Before was good,” he says after a few beats, voice satisfyingly hoarse.

Boba smiles. He can work with easy to please. “I’m not as young as I used to be, but I think I’ve got some ideas for a follow-up,” Boba says, and shifts down to pull the _verd_ by his hips to the edge of the bunk.

“What—” he says, and cuts himself off when Boba drops to his knees and slides his hands up the man’s thighs.

Boba raises an eyebrow at him when he gets to the waistband. “Yes?”

“Yes,” the _verd_ says.

“ _Jate_ ,” Boba says, and leans forward, nuzzling into the front of the _verd_ ’s pants and getting a strangled noise for his trouble. He pulls down the fabric and frees the man’s cock, which is already hard. Boba wraps a hand around the base to hold it steady and sweeps upward once with the flat of his tongue, licking at the underside of the head before following with his fingers.

“ _Ka’ra_ ,” the man says, like it’s been punched out of him.

Boba glances up. “This okay?”

“You—yes,” the _verd_ says weakly. “Very, very okay.”

Boba smirks, and leans back down. He can see the man’s hands clench on the edge of the bunk, before one of them moves to cup the back of Boba’s head. Not pushing, just present. A pleasant weight, to match the one on his tongue.

He can’t take his time the way he’d like to, but he’s got a few tricks—he seals his mouth over the head and licks at the spot just under it until the _verd_ lets out a whine as if he can’t help himself. Validated, Boba mouths down along the vein that runs up the underside, lapping at the base and shifting to press his thumb to the slit. The _verd_ twitches at this, and Boba does it again, and uses his free hand to take out his own cock and fist it roughly. He’s always enjoyed doing this, and he’s hard when he shifts back up to swallow the whole length again, eyes slipping closed as he bobs up and down.

He feels the touch of fingers at the corner of his mouth where it’s stretched wide, and Boba hums, opens his eyes to half-mast to see that the _verd_ has taken off his gloves again. He quickens his pace until the _verd_ ’s chest is heaving.

“I’m close,” he says.

Boba pops off, smirks again, and says: “I know,” before sinking back down almost to the hilt, and swallowing when the _verd_ comes with a quiet groan. His hands scrabble at Boba’s shoulders for a moment before he’s pulling Boba up and back onto the bunk.

“Good?” Boba asks.

The _verd_ huffs a laugh. “ _Jate_ ,” he says, brushes a thumb over Boba’s jaw and Boba turns and catches it in his mouth, sucking hard once before letting it go with a nip.

“Dank farrik,” the _verd_ mutters, and reaches down between them, bolder this time.

Boba’s already almost there, and the hand on his cock grips him with just the right firmness, fingers stroking up and running over the head once, twice, then Boba’s coming, too. He breathes, lets himself fall on his side between the other man’s body and the wall. There’s not enough room on the bunk for two grown men, but it’s not so bad, and he’s not moving for at least a few minutes.

“That was a good follow-up,” the _verd_ says eventually, and then, “It’s Din.”

Boba’s brain isn’t completely rebooted yet, and this doesn’t register. “Hm?”

“My name. It’s Din Djarin.” He pauses. “You can use it.”

This gets Boba fully alert. “Do you want me to use it?” he asks carefully.

“Yes,” Din says, firm.

Boba grins. “Well-met, then, Din Djarin,” he says. “In that case, you may as well call me Boba.”

-

3

The third time, Din is grieving, and he’s the one that asks Boba, the two of them the only ones left on Boba’s ship with the others staying on the cruiser.

Boba pulls off his _buy’ce_ to run a hand over his face, watches Din for a long beat, and shakes his head. “Din,” he says lowly. “You know it won’t help.”

Din says nothing for a while. Boba waits, because he’s not the one hurting. “Please,” Din finally says. “I need—to think about something else.”

And Boba’s been there, desperate and mourning and needing an outlet. Sex is a better one than a lot of other vices.

But then Din’s hands go up to his helmet, and Boba knows he’s not going to watch this happen, knows it in his chest as he catches Din’s wrists carefully and lowers them. Din offers no resistance, but his fingers clench into fists in Boba’s easy grip.

“What are you doing,” Din says. It’s not really a question.

“Stopping you from making this call right now,” Boba says frankly.

Din’s helmet tilts away. “I showed my face already,” he says. “I took the helmet off.”

“For the kid,” Boba counters.

“For the kid,” Din agrees. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t go back.”

Boba sighs. “Just—sleep on it, all right? Keep the helmet on for now,” he says, and musters a small smile. “If you change your mind tomorrow, I don’t want tonight on my conscience.”

Din pulls his hands away, but lets them fall to his sides. Absently, he takes out that little metal ball and starts fiddling with it again.

“Sorry,” he says eventually. “I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

Boba shakes his head. “It’s all right,” he says.

“It’s not,” Din says. “But thanks for saying that.”

Boba huffs. “It will be,” he says. “Come on. You can have my bunk tonight. It’s better than the chair.”

Din hesitates. “I can go find empty quarters on the cruiser,” he says.

“You want to?” Boba asks, trying to keep the doubt off his face.

“No,” Din concedes. “But it’s your bunk.”

Boba shrugs. “We can share, if you feel that badly about it, though I can’t promise it’ll be comfortable,” he says. “It can help, to have someone else around.”

“I already made an offer, and you refused,” Din points out.

Boba rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean for sex,” he says, instead of saying that Din’s ‘offer’ was more of a plea for help. “For sleep. To watch your back.”

Din thinks this over, and then his shoulders drop. “Okay,” he says.

“Come on,” Boba says again, and taps their pauldrons together before leading the way to his bunk.

Boba removes his chestpiece and vambraces and sets them in the corner while Din hovers in the doorway, one hand still clutching the metal ball, his silhouette backlit from the hall. Finally, when it’s clear he’s gone somewhere else in his head even if his feet haven’t moved, Boba gets up to stand in front of him, crossing his arms.

“Personally, I’ve always had a hard time falling asleep standing up,” he says.

Din startles. “Sorry,” he says.

Boba shakes his head, and pulls him along onto the bunk, folding himself back against the wall and tugging Din to his chest.

“This can’t be comfortable for you,” Din says, stiff.

“I’ve had worse,” Boba says.

Din sits up, takes off his gloves and unbuckles his chestpiece, sets it to the side, then shifts back down to the bunk. Boba pulls them together again and concedes it’s more comfortable, even if Din is still tense.

“You’re warm,” Din says, sounding surprised.

Boba raises his eyebrows. “Humans generally are,” he says.

“…Yeah,” Din says, as if he’d forgotten.

Boba can’t help but smile a little, snaking an arm around Din’s front. He noses at the nape of Din’s neck, below the helmet, where the armorweave shirt gives way to skin. Din relaxes against him by increments.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Din admits eventually, only just loud enough for the vocoder to pick it up.

“About what?” Boba asks, when Din doesn’t continue.

Din laughs without mirth, and then chokes on something that might be a sob, shoulders shaking. Boba rearranges them so they’re front-to-front and taps his forehead to Din’s _buy’ce_ before pressing him close, and Din falls apart in total silence in Boba’s arms, hands clutching tight at Boba’s back.

“Thanks,” Din says finally, voice hoarse.

“It’s no trouble,” Boba says.

“You’ve been very kind.”

Boba blinks. “You might be the first person who’s ever said that about me,” he says, surprised into candor.

Din shrugs. “It’s true.”

How can someone live in this galaxy and be so karking honest all the time? “Thanks,” Boba says, anyway.

Din nods slightly, and then sighs loud enough for the vocoder. “I really don’t know what I’m going to do,” he says again.

“Probably something to consider after a sleep cycle,” Boba suggests. “Especially if one of the options is trying to take karking _Mandalore._ ”

Din huffs. “It’s not one of the options,” he says. “But after I make sure it’s not—I don’t know.”

“So don’t think that far ahead. Just think about tomorrow. What will you do tomorrow?” Boba asks as Din’s fingers start tracing a pattern on his ribs. “Then, think about the next day. And then the next.”

Din is silent for long enough that Boba feels his own eyes slipping closed, lulled by the warmth of Din against him and the gentle movement of his hand. “Tomorrow, I’ll fight Bo-Katan and hopefully lose. After that…” he trails off, before continuing more softly. “I guess I can’t stay on your ship forever.”

“You can stay as long as you like,” Boba mumbles, before sleep claims him, and doesn’t notice the way Din’s thumb pauses for a second in its motion.

-

4

The fourth time, it’s a goodbye.

Boba’s picked up a few bounties to get his hand back in, taken Fennec on one and Din on a couple more. Din had been a ghost on the ship for weeks after giving the kid away—he hadn’t even needed to throw the fight with Kryze, had lost it fairly, too stuck in his own head—but he’s still quick on the draw and a good enough lookout for Boba, who’s long been used to working alone. Sometimes Boba had hit his bunk at the end of the day and found Din already there, looking for nothing except human warmth. Boba’s happy enough to give him that; even if the space is too small, he likes sleeping next to someone. Always has.

They’d made a good team. Din’s grief had worn down to something less palpable. Boba’d learned to read Din’s silences.

Then, a couple months down the hyperlane, Luke Skywalker had called and said, “Grogu wants to see you, will you come?”

Din had been silent for a long moment, shock radiating off of him. “Is it allowed?” he had finally asked, cautious, shoulders drawn up like a good thing was being dangled before him and he didn’t know how to reach out and grab it before it got snatched away.

Skywalker’s eyebrows had gone up with honest surprise, and Boba had almost felt a little bad for wishing he’d killed him. “I don’t see why not. If you want, you can even take him on a field trip for a couple weeks. His control’s gotten a lot better.”

“I—” Din had said, a little choked, and the wish had returned. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He’d made arrangements, Dune had offered a ship for Din to borrow, and now they’re on Nevarro standing on the loading ramp and not knowing what to say like a pair of idiots. Dune’s not showing up until tomorrow, but Boba’s got no real reason to stick around. No reason he can place, anyway, other than he’s never been very good at goodbyes.

Din isn’t facing Boba but Boba can feel his attention anyway, there at his side in the sunlight.

Din is the first to speak, this time. “I want—before I leave,” Din says, and pauses for long enough that Boba thinks he’s maybe decided against finishing the sentence after all. Then he continues. “You said a real bed is always more comfortable. I’ve got a room for the night. If you want.”

Boba turns, glad that his _buy’ce_ is hiding the surprise that must be on his face. It’s been weeks. Months, even. Boba hadn’t planned on pressing. “You sure?”

He gets the sense that Din is laughing at him. “I’m sure. Take it or leave it,” Din says.

“You—” Boba stops, caught off-guard. Din hadn’t said anything, all those nights he’d been a line of easy warmth down Boba’s side.

“Like I said,” Din says. “Take it or leave it.”

When he turns and heads for the inn, Boba, being no fool, closes the ramp and follows. Din weaves through the streets familiarly—Guild headquarters hadn’t been on this planet during the time of the Empire, so Boba notes the streets, the bustling marketplace.

Din stops at the mouth of an alley, presses a gloved hand to the wall. “The covert used to be under this building,” he says, voice low.

“I’m sorry,” Boba says.

Din’s hand falls to his side, and he bows his head for a beat before moving on. “We aren’t all gone,” he says. “Just scattered.”

“Sorry, anyway,” Boba offers.

Din’s helmet tilts his way. “Thanks.”

They get a few looks as they walk—two Mandalorians in full _beskar’gam_ will get looks almost anywhere in the galaxy, now—but Din moves with purpose, nods at the barkeep on the ground floor when they get to the inn. He knows this place, knows its rhythms. Boba tails him up the dusty stairs and into the room at the end of the hall, watches Din lock the door behind them.

“You’ve stayed here before,” Boba says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“The bartender’s former Guild,” Din agrees, removing his chestpiece and following it with the rest of his armor as Boba does the same.

Din finishes first, moves towards the bed while Boba’s taking his vambraces off.

Boba, finding himself on eye level with Din’s waist, looks up and smirks, putting a hand lightly on Din’s hip. “Is that what you want?”

Din shakes his head, puts one knee on the bed and a hand on Boba’s shoulder. “Maybe later,” he says.

Boba laughs, pulling him down, and Din visibly stops himself from catching his balance where he would have fallen off the edge already if they’d been in Boba’s bunk.

“I told you a real bed made things easier,” Boba says, a little smug.

“Wouldn’t know,” Din mutters.

Boba blinks. Din’d said he stayed here before, and this is very much a real bed—

 _Oh_.

Boba forces himself to keep breathing, doesn’t let himself freeze for more than a moment. Kark. If he’d known, he would have gone slower, the first time. Been more careful. But he’d hardly _planned_ it. And Din hadn’t said a thing—had just let it happen, had agreed thrice-over and been enthusiastic besides, and Boba hadn’t thought anything of it.

“Boba?” Din asks, and he realizes he’s been quiet for too long.

He leans over and kisses Din’s clothed shoulder in silent apology. He can be careful, now. They’ve got the luxury of hours, this time.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Din’s _buy’ce_ tilts. “What’s on offer?”

He’d avoided the question the first time, too, and Boba hadn’t even realized. Some _beroya_ he is. He huffs at himself. “We can play it by ear. Tell me if I should stop.”

He flips them, running his hands along Din’s sides and grinding down once, before sliding his fingers under Din’s shirt to ruck it up so he can press a kiss to Din’s sternum. “Okay?” he asks.

Din nods, reaches down to help undo his pants, and Boba’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him wearing no armor but the helmet, shirt bunched up and pants pulled down. He swipes a thumbnail over Din’s nipple experimentally, and finds that it earns him an almost-imperceptible full-body shiver, so he replaces his thumb with his mouth and gets a muffled whine for his efforts. Din’s hands move so carefully over his neck, his shoulders, before he pushes Boba up a bit.

“I have—” Din breaks off, and reaches into his bag to pull out a small bottle and hand it to Boba. “Thought it might be useful.”

Boba stares, caught speechless for the second—third?—time tonight. “You’re prepared,” he says finally.

“I like your hands,” Din says, and Boba’s breath catches.

“I think you _did_ know what you wanted when I asked,” Boba accuses mildly.

Din’s shoulders shake with a laugh that his vocoder doesn’t pick up, and he folds Boba’s fingers around the bottle. “Yeah,” he says. “But only if you want it, too.”

“I’m easily convinced,” Boba says, and sets the bottle aside to lean down and bite lightly at Din’s collarbone.

“What are you—”

“We’ll get there,” Boba says. He’s not going to rush; they’ve got hours before Din leaves. If this is Din’s way of saying goodbye, Boba’s going to make damn sure he remembers it.

He moves across Din’s chest, seeing what gets a reaction, what gets Din’s blunt fingernails to dig into his back. Takes his time, fits them together and spends long minutes grinding down in slow circles before even getting their underwear off, so Din is warm and pliant by the time he reaches for the lubricant.

Boba spills it generously on his fingers, slicks Din’s cock once to hear the noise he makes before moving his hand further down, brushing over Din’s rim without pushing in. “Yes?” he asks.

“ _Elek_ ,” Din says, and tenses up when Boba presses one finger in.

“It’ll feel better if you relax,” Boba says, and puts his mouth to work again, sucking at one nipple and then the other.

“Easier said than done,” Din says, sounding like he’s panting under the helmet, but gives himself over when Boba uses his free hand to cup his balls, bucking up off the mattress.

Boba chuckles quietly, running his hand up Din’s cock, and Din pulls him up to press his _buy’ce_ to Boba’s forehead. “Another,” Din says, before letting him go.

Boba moves his finger in and out, and nods before adding another and twisting them inside, searching, until Din makes a strangled noise and bears down. There it is. Boba muffles his grin in Din’s stomach. “Good?”

“Yes—dank farrik, what _is_ that?”

“Prostate,” Boba says, and slides in a third finger, brushes the spot again, and again, until Din’s chest is slick with sweat.

“You—I can take more. If you want,” Din says, and palms Boba’s cock.

Boba uses almost all his self-control to not thrust into Din’s hand. “You don’t have to,” he says.

“I think it’ll feel good. I trust you,” Din says, and Boba has to close his eyes for a moment, swallowing.

“Okay,” he says, and Din hands him a little packet wordlessly. Boba quirks a grin. “You’re _very_ prepared.”

He rolls on the condom and slicks himself with one hand, pushing his fingers back in to press at Din’s prostate before Din reaches down and pulls his hand away.

“Boba,” Din says, voice practically a growl. “Come on.”

Boba runs a hand over his hip. “It’ll be easier if you’re on your front,” he says, and Din turns over obligingly, presents Boba with the long lean expanse of his back as he braces on his elbows.

He must pause too long, because Din’s _buy’ce_ turns over his shoulder. “Well?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Boba says, nonsensically, and then: “Tell me if it hurts.”

He eases into Din in a slow, deliberate press, an impossible tightness.

“ _Boba_ ,” Din says again, and Boba freezes.

“Hurts?” Boba asks.

Din shakes his head, breathing hard. “Need a minute,” he says.

“Okay,” Boba says, leans down to kiss the small of Din’s back, runs his hands along his sides, his ass. Strokes his cock and Din bites off a noise.

“I need—move,” Din says, and so Boba does. It takes a few strokes, but then he finds that spot, Din’s hands fisting in the sheets until Boba presses one of them flat and interlaces their fingers. He keeps his other hand on Din’s cock, touch just light enough to be teasing, and Din reaches his own free hand down to press into it.

Boba moves his hand down to run gently over Din’s balls, and Din groans lowly. “Boba,” he manages, voice shot. “ _Gedet’ye_.”

“I’ve got you,” Boba says, and drives in at the same angle, determined to see how many noises he can get out of Din before he comes. He bites gently at the ridge of Din’s shoulder blade, and then sucks a bruise into his neck, just below the edge of the helmet.

“ _Gedet’ye,_ ” Din says again, pushing back against him. Boba obliges him and strokes Din’s cock firmly in time with his thrusts, thumbing over the spot under the head as Din drops his own hand back to the mattress, shoulders heaving.

“ _Gar kandosii’la,_ ” Boba murmurs, and Din goes rigid all over as he comes. Boba only manages a few more strokes before he’s following Din over, gasping in one breath and then another.

He pulls out once he has the wherewithal to do it carefully, Din shivering a little as Boba presses another kiss to his shoulder before he ties off the condom and tosses it. “ _Me’vaar ti gar?_ ”

“ _Jate,_ ” Din says, fingers wrapping around Boba’s wrist when he sits up. “Where’re you going?”

“To get a cloth. We’ll both be sticky otherwise,” Boba points out when Din tightens his grip rather than answer.

Din hums doubtfully, but lets go.

Boba laughs. “Can be pretty unpleasant,” he says. “Just need a minute.”

He fetches one of the cloths from the bathroom and douses it in warm water before returning, running it over Din’s stomach and then his own before dropping it. “You okay?” he asks.

Din’s _buy’ce_ turns to him. “Yes. You want me to tell you a third time?”

Strangely, he does—wants to hear it again and once more for good measure. Just to make sure. “I believe you,” he says instead.

Din takes his hand and folds their fingers together. “Good,” he says. “Go to sleep, Boba.”

He still feels electrified despite the exhaustion, riding the endorphin rush, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep, even watching the steady rise and fall of Din’s chest.

But he wakes as if no time had passed at all, with Din still next to him.

Boba slings an arm over him, feels the shallow breathing that says he’s awake. “All right?” Boba asks.

“ _Jate_ ,” Din says softly, puts a hand on Boba’s shoulder to trace the line of acid scarring that runs from there down his shoulder blade.

Boba watches him. A person’s face can betray them so easily, but beskar is more difficult to read, and silence more difficult still. But Boba’s become a fairly proficient interpreter of Din Djarin’s quiet moods, these last months, for all that he’d first failed to comprehend. This one is—warm. Humming with an undercurrent Boba can’t place.

“I have to go,” Din says eventually. “Where are you headed, after Nevarro?”

“Not sure yet,” Boba says. “But I’ve plenty of unfinished business to take care of. So does Shand.”

Din nods, and turns to him, silent for a moment. Boba raises his eyebrows, fights the unexpected urge to ask Din to find him again. They don’t owe each other anything.

“I’m figuring it out,” Din says finally.

Boba stares. “What?”

“You asked me what I liked, before,” Din says. “I’m figuring it out.”

Boba swallows against the pressure in his throat, in his chest. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

“You’ve helped,” Din says with devastating honesty, and stands, brushing a thumb over Boba’s jawline.

Boba blinks, processing the unfortunate realization that somewhere along the way he’d gone and put his heart into Din’s hands without meaning to.

Din turns when he gets to the doorway, clears his throat. “ _Vor entye_ , Boba Fett,” he says. “For everything.”

“ _Ba’gedet’ye_ _,_ Din Djarin,” Boba manages. “ _Ret’urcye mhi_ _._ ”

Din nods. “ _Ret,_ ” he replies, and walks away.

Boba watches him until he’s gone, an ache making itself known in his chest. _K’oyacyi,_ he lets himself think. _K’oyacyi, bal ke'yaimpari._

-

5

The fifth time, Din finds Boba nursing a glass of tihaar in an out-of-the-way cantina in Mos Eisley. For a moment, Boba entertains the idea that Din’s a hallucination, but he’s far too sober for that. And besides, Din moves like he’s real, steps predator-soft. Not just a _verd_ but a _beroya_ again, and a good one.

“ _Su’cuy gar,_ Boba,” Din says.

“ _Su’cuy,_ ” Boba echoes, instead of saying any of the ridiculous things that he wants to say about how he’d missed Din’s voice. About how he’d missed Din. He’s too sober for that, too.

“There an occasion?” Din asks as he sits down across the table from Boba and nods at the distinctive drink. The best tihaar is served neat, in a short glass—he’d heard his _buir_ say that, once.

Boba sighs, very aware that he’s about to sound extremely pathetic. “Yeah. My birthday.”

Din’s _buy’ce_ tilts. “Happy birthday. I’m surprised Shand isn’t throwing you a party,” he says.

Boba laughs. “She tried,” he says. “There’s a lot of people trying to kill me at the moment, though, and I didn’t want her to spend all night sniping. Even if that _is_ her idea of a good time.”

Din chuckles, then sits quietly as Boba finishes his glass. He could raise his hand for a refill. That had been his plan.

“You here with a puck?” he asks instead, and closes out his tab, wiring the credits over before standing up. New Republic credits being taken on Tatooine instead of wupiupi—the whole karking galaxy’s upside down. Makes his life a hell of a lot easier, though.

“No,” Din says, and stands just after he does, follows him as he shoulders his way out into the desert cool, pulling his _buy’ce_ back on.

Something else occurs to Boba. “Wait, where’s the kid? I thought you were gonna take him on a field trip. A hunt.”

“Left him with a friend at the spaceport,” Din says. “Needed her to strip the tracking off my new ship, anyway.”

“You aren’t here on a bounty,” Boba realizes.

“No,” Din admits. “Heard a rumor that someone shot up Jabba’s palace and freed the slaves last month. Thought it might’ve been you.”

Karking Fennec. She’s been making increasingly serious threats of bodily harm to stop his moping—her words, not his—but they’ve only stayed on Tatooine this long so she could catch up with _her_ contacts, anyway, so the least she could do is not meddle in Boba’s life, thank you very much.

“I was in the neighborhood, figured I might as well get rid of some old enemies,” Boba says. “Do the galaxy a favor.”

“You do favors now?” Din asks, dry. He seems—lighter. Being able to see the kid but still have a safe place for him to stay long-term has probably done wonders.

Boba clears his throat. “Sometimes,” he says.

Din’s helmet turns away, and Boba gets the sense he’s amused.

“So, you need my help with something?” Boba asks, when Din seems content to stay quiet.

“No,” Din says. “But I do need a place for the night.”

Boba almost trips over nothing, but catches himself, keeps walking and determinedly doesn’t turn to look at Din. “We’ve cleared out Jabba’s palace,” he says. “There’s a lot of spare rooms.”

“That where you’re staying?” Din asks.

This time, Boba does turn to stare at him. “You got plans?” he asks, voice steadier than he expects.

Din nudges their pauldrons together. “Seemed like you might,” he says.

“No, I—” Boba breaks off, shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says firmly.

“I could give suggestions,” Din says, a low note in his voice that makes Boba’s mouth go dry.

“Yeah,” Boba says, and is glad the _buy’ce_ hides his wince. He’s sure he sounded less of a fool before he’d noticed the love that had snuck up and caught him unawares. He forges ahead. “Yeah, I’m staying at the palace.”

Din nods, lets the hush of nighttime settle again, and follows Boba through the dark streets, while Boba comes up with increasingly irrational explanations besides the obvious: that Din had come back, and he’d come back for _Boba_.

Din’s quiet is comfortable, as if he hadn’t been gone for two full months, as if he hadn’t left at all, and Boba is loath to break it until he has to. He takes them through one of the back ways he’d found when he worked for Jabba, avoids the front hall where Fennec is probably busy drinking her Weequay friends under the table.

He hesitates, getting to his door. “You sure?” Boba asks.

Din’s shoulders shake with a laugh. “I’m sure,” he says. “As long as you’ve got a bed.”

Not a mistake, then. Boba snorts, and palms open the door, and Din is crowding him almost as soon as he locks it behind them, tapping their helmets together. His armor clicks against Boba’s, and Boba huffs out a breath, lets himself be herded towards the bed. “Eager,” he says, unbuckling his chestpiece as he moves.

“I missed you,” Din says, unashamed.

“You have me,” Boba says before he can think better of it, and tugs Din with him when the backs of his knees hit the bed.

He pulls off his helmet and gloves as Din sets his own chestpiece down before moving back over Boba. He presses a thumb to Boba’s jaw, where Boba had felt his touch for days after Nevarro, and Boba retaliates by sliding his hands under Din’s shirt and scraping a thumb over one of his nipples, hissing when that makes Din buck into him. Last time they’d done this, Boba hadn’t even realized what he felt; now, Din’s every movement unravels him.

“What do you want?” Boba asks.

Din’s soundless laughter moves through both of them. “You,” he says, reaches down to palm the front of Boba’s pants before hitching their hips together and pressing down. His other hand slips behind Boba to dip under his waistband, fingers not going nearly as far down as he wants.

“We can do that,” Boba manages through a gasp when Din pushes down again, not feeling particularly patient himself. “Sounds great. Sounds perfect.”

“Boba,” Din says, and he stops, Din pushing up to sit back between Boba’s legs, _buy’ce_ tilted towards him. Boba watches him, reads the lines of his shoulders and chest, the tenor of his silence.

Din’s hands move up to the helmet, and then he seems to reconsider, lowering his arms and splaying his fingers across Boba’s thighs instead.

“I want—” Din starts, stops, and then tries again. “I’m—”

“It’s all right,” Boba says. “Listen, how about this? I’m going to turn around, and I won’t look. If you want to take it off, then take it off. If you don’t, then don’t. Your choice. I won’t know either way.”

Din touches the corner of Boba’s mouth gently, so gently. “ _Vor entye_ , Boba,” he says. “Oil?”

Boba opens the drawer in the wall next to the bed, takes out the vial and hands it to Din, before turning around to pull off his shirt and pants. Din’s hands run up his back and he shivers, and then Din presses up behind him, follows Boba down when he shifts to lie on his front. He can feel the expanse of Din’s bare chest against his back, both of them breathing hard, and Din reaches forward to run his fingers lightly up and down Boba’s cock before Boba feels a slick touch at his hole.

“Okay?” Din asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” Boba says.

Din’s chest shakes with a laugh, but he presses a finger into Boba slowly. “You’re so tight,” he says quietly.

Boba bites back a groan. He’s pretty sure that he’ll die if Din keeps saying things like that with wonder in his voice, with one hand fondling Boba’s balls and the other in him. “Come on,” Boba says. “Another.”

Din hums in agreement, and adds another finger, scissoring them slowly inside Boba.

“That’s it, you’re—” Boba cuts the rest off when Din’s fingers crook just right, and he drops his head down to his arms. Din, getting the picture, does it again, and again after adding a third finger, stroking the same spot over and over until Boba feels like he’s going to rip apart at the seams right there.

“Din,” Boba grits out. “If you don’t get on with it, this is gonna be over really fast.”

“You’re impatient,” Din says, sounding amused to have the upper hand, but removes his fingers, which Boba immediately misses.

“Eager,” Boba counters, grinning.

There’s a pause and then sounds of shifting and a wrapper tearing behind him, and then one of Din’s hands goes to his hip, steady, and there’s a new pressure teasing at his rim.

Din hesitates. “Is this going to hurt you?”

“No,” Boba says, doesn’t add that at this point he probably wouldn’t care if it did. “Come on.”

There’s a different shifting sound and then Din sinks evenly into him one agonizing, perfect moment at a time, drawing a keen out of Boba when his hips are finally pressed fully to Boba’s ass. He’s missed the feeling, and with Din it’s—good. It’s so _good._

Then there’s the touch of lips at the nape of his neck, dry and featherlight, and Boba shudders and closes his eyes to remove the risk. He told Din he wouldn’t look, and he won’t.

“Are you all right?” Din asks, moving so, so carefully, each tiny roll of his hips setting off sparks inside Boba. His voice is softer without the helmet’s vocoder, and Boba can feel him breathing.

“Better than all right,” Boba says. “ _Jate, ori’jate_ , it feels good. It’ll feel better if you move.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Din says, genuine concern in his voice.

“You aren’t going to,” Boba says. “ _Move,_ Din.”

Din rocks into him at that, and they both gasp, and then Din does it again, sliding out and back in, before he drapes himself over Boba’s back so that they’re flush together, the angle pressing him impossibly deeper inside and wrenching a groan out of Boba. Din gives a few testing thrusts, circling his hips, and then finds what he’s looking for when Boba jolts against him. Din presses forward and goes after that spot with dedication, one hand bracing on Boba’s hip and the other straying closer to Boba’s cock but not touching yet.

“ _Ka’ra,_ ” Boba breathes. “You did your research.”

He can feel Din smile against the top of his spine. “I remember your _practical demonstration_ ,” he says, and pushes in again, keeping his strokes short and even and managing to hit Boba’s prostate with almost every one.

Boba finds himself glad to be on his front, because it means Din can’t see his cheeks are burning. “Glad I could provide a memorable experience,” he mutters, and Din actually laughs. Boba wants to hear the sound over and over, wants to feel it in the center of his chest.

“Of course,” Din says, and _finally_ touches Boba, strokes up his length. Boba clenches down and Din sucks in a breath, presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. “That feels— _ori’jate_.”

“You’re about to feel it again,” Boba says, out of breath. “I’m close.”

“Me too,” Din says. His teeth scrape lightly over Boba’s neck as he presses a finger to the slit of Boba’s cock, and Boba makes a noise that might be a whine and comes.

“Oh,” Din says, pressing through it, and then Boba gets his bearings and grinds back against him, ignoring the oversensitivity. Din’s hands clench on his hips, his breathing harsh. “Boba.”

“Come on,” Boba says, and presses back again once, twice, and Din’s whole body tenses up as he comes with a low noise, before going boneless.

Boba’s happy to stay right where he is, Din warm on top of him and still inside him, for any length of time, but eventually Din withdraws. “Hold on,” he says quietly, and Boba feels him press a quick kiss to his shoulder. He’s back in moments, and his voice has the vocoder overlay once more. “I brought a cloth.”

Boba laughs. “Were you taking notes?” he asks.

“Like I said, it was a good demonstration,” Din says, unfazed. “Turn over.”

Boba turns onto his back, obliging, and stretches languidly.

Din makes an amused noise. “You’re like a tooka when you do that,” he says, wipes both of them down.

Boba considers this. “There’re worse creatures to be.”

Din moves back to the fresher to leave the cloth there and then returns, tucking himself into Boba’s side. Boba doesn’t mean to fall asleep yet, wants to memorize Din’s breathing for all the times he could have but didn’t, wants to commit his warmth to the part of his mind that stores the most precious things—but he drifts off between one blink and the next.

He opens his eyes some indeterminate amount of time later to find Din sitting up with his helmet and most of his armor back on, tugging on his gloves. The light of first sunrise filters through the window, casting Din’s beskar into reds and golds. “Morning. You leaving?” Boba mumbles.

“Not yet,” Din says. “Come to the spaceport with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

-

+1

The ‘someone’ turns out to be a tiny green child— _Din’s_ child. Grogu. Boba forgets all his nerves as soon as Din emerges from the dusty office in Hangar 3-5 cradling the child with one arm, swaddled in a little brown robe. Grogu looks around like the whole world is fascinating from his perspective, braced against Din’s side.

“Grogu,” Din says, and the kid looks up at him. “This is Boba. You haven’t met him yet, but he helped me save you. You gonna say hello?”

The child turns to Boba and waves a tiny hand at him, and Boba waves back and lets him catch a finger, claws grasping on.

“Hello, little one,” Boba says, pulling off his _buy’ce_ to smile at the kid. “Thanks for taking care of your _buir_ for me.” Grogu coos at him, and he nods solemnly. “You’re right, he does need someone to watch his back.”

“Boba,” Din says, but his tone is fond.

Boba schools his features to guilelessness before looking up. “Yes?”

Grogu coos again, and Din huffs, shakes his head. “Of course he likes you,” he says, and the kid blinks huge eyes at him before turning back to Boba.

“I’m very likeable,” Boba says, grinning, and winks at Grogu. “Thanks for agreeing, _ad’ika_.”

Grogu grabs for his finger again, and Boba lets him have it, clasps his little hand carefully and shakes it like he’s making a deal. Grogu blinks at him very seriously and then reaches out his other hand to pat Boba’s arm, like he’s decided something, before leaning back into Din’s side and looking up at him again.

“All right,” Din says to the kid, taking out that little metal ball and handing it to him. Grogu grabs onto it and smiles, and Din laughs, and Boba feels a bit like he’s been punched in the chest.

Din’s _buy’ce_ turns back to Boba. “Hold on.” He goes back to the office, and Boba hears him say “If anyone tries to hurt you or Peli, you use your powers and throw them through a wall, okay? Good. And then you get Peli to comm me.”

Din reappears while Boba’s wondering how much of that the kid understands, and tilts his head at the ship. “Come on,” he says. “There’s something else.”

He leads the way to the ship, and then to his bunk, closing the door before turning to face Boba. He’s quiet for a moment, hands relaxed at his sides, before Boba realizes what he’s about to do.

“You don’t have to,” Boba says.

“I know,” Din says, and then: “I want to.” And then, even more astonishingly: “I’ve wanted to for a while.”

“Yeah?”

Din nods. “Since after Morak.”

When Din had given him his name. Boba digests this. “You didn’t say,” he says at last.

“I was figuring it out,” Din says, and Boba starts laughing, has to squeeze his eyes shut against the happiness. By the time he opens them, Din has his hands on his helmet, and then he pulls it off in one motion.

His eyes are warm, crinkling at the corners with a small smile.

Boba swallows, considers what he wants to memorize first, can’t help but reach a hand up to cup Din’s jaw. Din turns into it, presses his lips to Boba’s palm, before meeting his eyes with no fear. Without any hesitation at all.

“Din,” Boba says. Like an idiot.

Din raises his eyebrows in question, and Boba runs his thumb along Din’s cheekbone in answer. Din’s eyes slide shut as he leans into it, his stubble scratchy against Boba’s fingers. 

“Din,” Boba says again, can’t help it. He feels a part of something holy. He’s been made witness to a sacred act; watching Din bare himself is an act of reverence. 

“What?” Din asks. 

“I like looking at you,” Boba says instead of the words that crowd at his throat. “Whether or not I can see your face.” This makes red chase across Din’s cheeks, the bridge of his nose, and Boba smiles, feeling a little daring. “But I do like your face more than most other people’s,” he says. “Because it’s yours, and you’re choosing me to show it to.”

“Boba,” Din says, soft.

“Can I kiss you?” Boba asks.

Din leans down in answer, catches Boba’s chin and presses their lips together, dry and almost chaste, before pulling back to tap his forehead to Boba’s in a gentle _mirshmure’cya_.

“Din,” Boba repeats a third time, quietly. Like a mantra. Like he’s invoking something miraculous.

“Yes,” Din agrees, and kisses him again, mouth opening on an exhale that Boba licks into, coaxing Din into the easy rhythm of it, nipping at his lower lip.

He could have lived without this forever, if Din had never wanted to show his face. But now that he has, Boba takes the chance, slides a hand up into Din’s hair and tugs lightly, Din gasping into his mouth. Boba pulls away so he can kiss his cheeks, the tip of his nose, works a bitemark into the skin just under his jawline and gets a tremble as reward.

“Boba,” Din says, and Boba can do nothing but cup his face and pull him down to kiss him again. He wants to hear that voice saying his name always.

“ _Ner beroya, ner kandosii’la verd_ _,_ ” Boba murmurs, just to feel the shiver that runs through him.

“Not sure it’s—fair of you to do that,” Din says.

“Never been very concerned with fair,” Boba concedes. “And I’ve no reason to start now, since I’d really like to know what sounds you make that the vocoder doesn’t pick up.”

“I brought the oil from your drawer,” Din says blithely. With his helmet off, Boba can see that he’s smirking a little.

“You—” Boba says, and dissolves into laughter. “And here you are, talking about ‘fair.’ You could have just asked, you know. I’d share with you.” He pauses, traces Din’s jaw, the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, where his pulse hammers away. He decides to be brave. “I’d share anything you wanted to.” His ship, his bed, his life.

Din’s eyebrows fly up, before he smiles, small and honest. “Is that an offer?”

Boba can’t help but smile back. “Take it or leave it,” he says.

“I’ll take it,” Din says, and then kisses him, and kisses him.

They don’t make it out of bed for hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando’a: 
> 
> verd – warrior; beroya - hunter  
> buy’ce – helmet  
> Me’vaar ti gar? – How are you?  
> elek – yes  
> jate – good; ori’jate – very good, excellent  
> ka’ra – stars  
> gedet’ye – please  
> ba’gedet’ye – you’re welcome  
> vor entye/vor’e – thank you/thanks  
> beskar’gam – beskar armor  
> buir – parent  
> ad’ika – kiddo (diminutive)  
> mirshmure’cya – forehead-kiss (affectionate headbutt)  
> Gar kandosii’la – You’re stunning  
> Su’cuy gar/Su’cuy – Hello/Hey  
> Ret’urcye mhi/Ret – Goodbye (Maybe we’ll meet again)/Bye  
> K’oyacyi – Stay alive  
> K’oyacyi, bal ke’yaimpari – Stay alive, and come back.  
> Ner beroya, ner kandosii’la verd – My hunter, my incredible warrior 
> 
> Catch me [on tumblr @keensers.](https://keensers.tumblr.com) Comments are beloved <3


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